Marked
by atruwriter
Summary: Hermione sets out to show Bill how beautiful he is, scars and all.


**Title**: Marked  
**Music**: The Chain – Fleetwood Mac  
**Relationship**: Hermione/Bill  
**Genre**: Romance/Angst  
**Rating**: T  
**Warning(s)**: Sexually Suggestive  
**Word Count**: 893  
**Summary**: Hermione sets out to show Bill how beautiful he is, scars and all.

**_Marked_**

-_Ficlet_-

He likes the lights off. She fights him on this, but eventually, when his sigh of discomfort does nothing but make her heart ache, she gives in.

He hates mirrors, any reflective furniture really. He avoids it if he can, doesn't even look down at the silver cutlery just in case.

She knows nobody else notices, wonders if maybe she's more to it than there is. But then, she knows him better, or at least differently, and she can see those little quirks of his that she wishes she could soothe. She doesn't mind the other things he does that would grate on some nerves; his habit of always leaving his shoes anyplace that _wasn't _the designated footwear area, or how he never cleans the tub when he's done, leaving that ring around it until she gives in and magic's it away. But when it came to things so personal, like him feeling self-conscious about his looks, she has to put her foot down.

She waits until he's undressed, dragging the blanket back on their bed and getting ready to sleep and relax and forget all about anything except them. His job, his family, they're all outside this room; everything that doesn't involve the two of them appears non-existent, making this her perfect setting.

He leaves her end of the blanket down, just as she likes it. Over the years, he's picked up on her little mutterings, like that of how the sheet beneath the blanket always gets tangled up funny if she doesn't do it herself while climbing in next to him. He sits with his back against the headboard, dropping his book on the end table, forgotten. His arms flex behind his tipped head as he watches her undress, taking out her stud earrings, unfastening her hair and finally, drawing off the pajamas she's taken to wearing around the chilly house during the evenings. His eyes darken, his jaw ticks, his tongue drags across his lips as he watches each article of clothing leave her body and land anally in the laundry basket. Until finally, she's bereft of any material, standing gloriously naked and not a single moment of uncertainty remains as she crosses the floor and slips in next to him.

He reaches for her as he always does, his long body sidling up close to hers, heat warming her from the outside in, causing a stir in her belly that she's well aware of by now. As he settles between her thighs, his arms falling to either side of her like a protective surrounding wall, she lifts her fingers to caress his face. There's a small note of recognition, remembering, and then he's reaching for the light, as if he can't stand to have her see him while he makes love to her.

She's put up with it long enough, she decides. Because whether or not he knows it, he's beautiful. Stunning. She stills his hand, says nothing but takes it in hers, fingers threading, tightening. And then she traces each and every one of the still slightly puckered upheavals of flesh that score down his face. She lifts up, kisses them lingeringly as if she almost expects that to take them away. For him, not her. Because she loves them, even if he doesn't, won't, _can't_.

He lays heavier against her, like a burden is placed on his back and he can't hold it up any longer. She wraps herself around him, ignores her trembling heat that pleads to join with him, to have him buried deep inside her until anything resembling thought is impossible. But she can't, not yet. Because he's hurt, he's suffering, and she won't allow it to go on.

She kisses the corner of his mouth, her tongue tasting his lips, lapping at the barely-there edge of fangs that hasn't and won't reach their full potential. His arms flex, the muscles bunching and tightening, whether from discomfort or desire, she can't tell. She buries a hand in his hair, tightens hers fingers around long ginger locks and holds him in place. Rocking her hips, she stares up at him with dark coffee eyes. "I could spend a lifetime just looking at you… Just watching the expressive plains of your face… The smirk of your devilish lips…" She drags her mouth up the length of his nose, pausing at his brow and sighing. "If you could see you through my eyes…" Her hands cup his face, thumbs stroking both unblemished and scarred flesh with the same reverence.

"I'm marked… by _him_," he mutters hoarsely, his body tensing against hers.

"Mm," she agrees, kissing his eyebrow. "The beautiful side of evil."

"I'm not—"

"I don't know what _you _see when you look at yourself, but it's skewed." She turns him onto his back with ease, straddles him, hands pressing heavy on his chest. "Let me show you just how beautiful _I _think you are…" And with that, she leans forward to pepper his face, his _marks_, with all the adoration she has within herself, pouring all of her love onto him until he's drowning in it, unable to deny that her eyes see what he can't, who he is, and _that_ Bill Weasley is no less than hauntingly beautiful. If Hermione Granger could see it, prove it, then who was he to think her wrong?


End file.
